Bouncing off the walls

SPRING, beautiful spring. A couple of birds are canoodling right outside the den window. They are so in love, so focused on each other, that they are unconcerned with what others think.

I swear the guy has his wings all over her. Must be teenagers. Where are her parents? I try not to watch but I cannot look away. Bird smut. It’s everywhere lately.

Spring, beautiful spring. I hear the clink-clink-clinking of a spoon in a coffee cup and know my wife is up. We all have our own personal set of sound effects. Clink-clink-clink....

“You know, we have the carnival today,” says Col. Clink.

“Today?”

Another one of her personal sound effects: telling me what to do. I don’t mind. Everyone needs a little guidance. From her, I get structure and discipline. If those birds outside the window had a little more discipline ...

“You’re working the 10-to-11 shift,” my wife says.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say.

“You don’t have to be a wiseguy,” she says.

I’m very serious, actually. Beyond serious. At one time, I used to like to goof around a little. That was until the other day when I showed the little guy how to take a picture with a cellphone. I predict a big future for small electronic devices; I merely wanted him to be prepared.

“Say cheese, Daddy!” he said.

“Cheese!” I said proudly.

Trouble was I was in the shower at the time.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I yelled as the 4-year-old snapped the picture then scurried to the next room, laughing-drunk over his cherished new possession, a cellphone shot of his old man toweling off after a shower.

“Let’s see, let’s see!” screamed his brother.

“We should put it on MySpace,” said his big sister.

“OK,” said the little guy.

It’s no wonder I hate the media. There are no limits.

Anyway, no more goofing around for me; I’ve been burned too often. Actions have consequences. Besides, the 21st century has not been kind to wiseguys.

At the carnival, women with clipboards are telling volunteers what to do. I line up and wait for my assignment. Women with clipboards have always impressed me with their leadership skills and single-minded sense of purpose.

“The bouncy house,” says the woman, looking at her list of assignments.

“The bouncy house?”

“You’re Erskine, right?”

“Not anymore,” I say.

Now, let me tell you this about bouncy houses. I have watched hyper-violent NFL games from the sidelines. I have seen the most brutal of bar fights up close. I suffered through the last final seasons of “Frasier.” None of these prepares you for the mayhem of a school carnival bouncy house.

Bouncy houses are little air-cushioned playpens for kids who’ve had too many candy bars for breakfast. You know how some kids will eat a snow cone, and it drips down their arms, up into their armpits and then down around their legs? Those are the kids who wind up in bouncy houses.

“OK, the bouncy house takes three tickets,” another lady with a clipboard says, explaining my duties.

“And where are the helmets?” I ask.

“Um, they don’t wear helmets.”

“I was thinking for me,” I said.

We are fast approaching a world where everybody should wear helmets at all times. It would keep the sun off our noggins and let opposing planets know that we are a violent people not afraid of combat. As I see it, there would be no downside to wearing helmets at all times.

“Your apron is over there,” says another woman with a clipboard.

“Apron?”

Great, now they want me to cook. This is getting better by the moment. No helmet. No Taser gun. An apron.

For my own defense, I decide to address the bouncy house monkey-children in a no-nonsense monotone, like Joe Friday in “Dragnet.” I also set two main goals as bouncy house warden:

* To immediately splint all broken bones.

* To keep the 3-year-olds from peeing in the corner.

I quickly learn that I have set my goals too high. Kids are ping-ponging off the walls and careening off the ceiling. A favorite tactic of one little girl is to grab a little boy around the neck, then jump off the ledge. Apparently, it is the way she shows affection: “Hey, you’re cute! Banzai!”

“Stop that!” I say. “You over there, stop that!”

The bouncy house is soon convulsing like a bad stomach. Dads are peering through the mesh windows and placing bets on which kids will survive.

“Wow, that was some tackle,” one dad says.

“Who’s in charge here?” I ask.

“You are, dude,” someone says.

“I was afraid of that,” I say. “Hey, you over there ... !”

Spring, beautiful spring.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.